Merryn Walters
The first time I got lost on purpose, I was nine years old.
Home was — is — in the great county of Norfolk on the east coast of England, where sea fret kisses samphire, big skies lift the spirits, and country lanes don’t run straight from one bend to the next.
Still, even at that age, Jack Higgin’s masterpiece, The Eagle Has Landed, was already my favourite book. It didn’t take much to convince me, thirteen Nazi paratroopers were buried two villages over — my well-meaning parents had encouraged curiosity from an early age. More to the point, the novel’s endpapers had a map, and the village of Studley Constable wasn’t far away.
Starry-eyed, I set out, convinced by indisputable history and undeniable geography.
It took less than an hour to be apprehended in my pyjamas, and gently disillusioned by my – quite frankly – distraught parents. But the die was cast, and I have been getting lost on purpose ever since. Today, that means seeking out the also-stories, too often lost in the footnotes — exploring the maps, their makers, and the history that’s been shaped by them. I feel privileged to be a Fellow of the Royal Geographic Society.
Little compares to walking the ground, hiking off on a WW2 hunch or two. Over the years, I’ve also discovered ‘Slow You Down’ is a good philosophy, and coming home to Norfolk is a must. For the most part, work involves putting ink on paper for people who’d rather not hold a pen.
When I’m not on tour, you’ll find me working as Rentaquill. Here though, I’ll be wittering with alliterative abandon about maps and mapmakers and mayhem in the Second World War. It’s a sybaritic and perpetual work in progress.
Much like me.
@rentaquill
